


"Doc," Destan Loche, Autobiography

by Doctorsloth33



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Autobiography, Gen, Graphic depictions of medical treatment, Graphic depictions of trauma treatment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-03-08 12:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13458117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctorsloth33/pseuds/Doctorsloth33
Summary: 26 years after the close of the Great War, a veteran Legion Healer begins chronicling his life in an attempt to understand and fully cope with everything he has seen, done and otherwise experienced.





	1. Part I

My name is Destan Loche. At the behest of my good friend Runil, I am writing down a short chronicle of my life. In doing so Runil guarantees that when the road ahead appears dark and hopeless this account will serve as a reminder of why I have chosen to follow Lady Mara’s path.

  
I was the fourth son, fifth and last child to my father Ser Jacques Loche II and my mother Marie Loche. Father was a renowned warrior and adventurer before settling down, and brought prestige and title to my mother’s family business. My maternal grandparents were only able to produce one child, my mother, and were extremely pleased that a noble, however minor he may have been, took interest in their daughter. After marrying Father took over handling his Father-in-law’s business, importing and exporting textiles and luxury goods, and with Mother’s shrewd business sense grew the small operation into one that has offices in Hammerfell and Cyrodiil as well as several in our native High Rock.

My eldest brother, Jacques III (or Jack, as we call him) is the heir apparent to the business and, last I have heard, handles all of the day-to-day operations. He was always rather bookish and brooding, more interested in studying figures than playing King of the Castle when we were young, or gaining the approval and admiration of the finer sex when we grew older. My next two siblings are the twins Deniel and Donnel. Rather ordinary Breton boys, adventurous, a bit mischievous but well-meaning at heart. One of the two was always getting into some sort of trouble or altercation and the other was always there to stand behind him. They are now both sworn knights who handle shipping and security for the family business. Both of them served in the Legion with distinction and fought in the Great War, as did I. Anya is my one and only sister, a sweet and kind girl who grew into a generous and philanthropic woman. She married into a minor house to the North just before I left for the College of War Magics and to my knowledge has had several children and lives a comfortable life.

  
I was the youngest, and the apple of my father’s eye for one simple reason: I was the only child who enjoyed fishing. Jack would grumble and find a tree to read under, the Twins ran about hooting and frightening the fish, and Anya was “a lady.” It would have beenimproper for Father to have taken her. But I could sit for hours patiently waiting on my bouy to dip below the water, and could bite back my excitement to ensure the fish was well and truly caught. We would go together, Father and I, once a month for several days and camp and fish.Out there by the lake that skirted the edge of our land, father would share wisdom and stories from his youth. We would sit well into the night talking and laughing and sharing the day’s catch. I still reminisce on those days as the best of my life.

  
When I became of age it appeared to me that I had only a few options. Follow Jack and dive headfirst into the family business, or follow the Twins into the Legion. Having the natural inclination towards adventure of the average Breton boy, I chose the latter. But where the twins went directly into the Legion as mere soldiers, I was determined to join the Shadow Legion and become one of the fabled Battlemages. I left home at seventeen, Mother teary eyed and Father beaming with pride while the carriage pulled away. I have not returned since.

  
The College was a rude awakening to the realities of military life. I soon found that I chafed under the constant, nagging authority that dogged my every step. I despised having to show deference to boys barely a year older, and most assuredly of lesser station, than I simply on merit of seniority. I could not grasp either the importance of walking in-step and in a perfectly straight line with fifteen others. It vexed me severely. No matter how hard I tried I was always doing something wrong and I very nearly gave up during that first year. Slowly but surely however, the tedium became easy and routine. I realized that I was merely saluting rank, not necessarily the person wearing it. It occured to me that, as silly as it might be, marching in perfect sync with your fellows did look rather professional and was therefore appropriate for an army. Likewise it truly did matter how crisp and clean my issued tunic was and how bright the Dragon on my belt shined, and I was never less than immaculate after this realization.

  
At the outset of the second year our class began to learn magic in earnest. It was discovered that I had a natural talent for the Restorative arts, so I was assigned to become a Healer. We learned a few basic Destruction and Alteration techniques to defend ourselves and our wards with, but delved deeply into using Magicka to mend the body. We also learned more traditional methods of curing ails and wounds, and spent much time studying ingredients, poultices, and potions. To me it was all very exciting; it is not soon one forgets the first time they see flesh knit itself back together under one’s influence. Cataloging, testing and experimenting with ingredients, spending hours at a time searching misty forests for just the right specimen of a certain fungi and honing technique through practical application became the highlights of my daily life. In our third year we were allowed to freely study from the massive library and a few of my peers and I found several tomes discussing lesser known, and lesser accepted, forms of magic. I was particularly fascinated by Blood Magic, or the process of using the life force of a being to furnish the power needed to cast certain spells. Some cultures refer to this as “Vampiric Magic,” and shun, or outright ban, its use. I merely studied the rituals and spells required, I was far too busy with my actual work to attempt applying such an intricate form of magic on my own.

  
I graduated first in my class and was honored by the Master of Restorative Arts during graduation with a personal Imperial Healer’s robe. On its epaulets were the silver Dragons indicating my rank as an Adept, one rank higher than my other classmates who were Apprentices, and emblazoned upon the breast was the Rune of Restoration. He informed me later that the Rune wasn’t simply for show; the robe was enchanted and would make casting Restorative spells less taxing on my mind. My entire family turned up for the ceremony, the Twins even received special dispensation to attend. Mother hugged me so tightly I feared my eyes would pop from their sockets, and Father made as if he was going to shake my hand when she finally released me. When I reached for it he had already changed his mind and I found myself crushed in another bear hug. Jack and the Twins only shook my hand, thankfully, and Anya gave me a quick embrace followed by a peck on the check. I have never been as proud as I was at that moment. I produced my orders and the Twins both crowded around and hoped that I was assigned to the Imperial City where they were stationed. They couldn’t bear to miss an opportunity to properly welcome their little brother into the Legion.

  
I tore open my orders and read them to my family. I was assigned to the Tenth Legion under General Decanius in Hammerfell. Mother nearly squealed in delight and Father clapped me on the back, happy that I would be so near to home. The Twins groaned in unison, and made jokes about how while they did the real work I would be gallivanting around on some beach chasing Redguard women. Twenty other graduates were assigned to the Tenth alongside me, and a list of their names were included. The College had put me in charge of overseeing all twenty Apprentices, and had given us a day and a half before we had to muster and ship out. I went to a richly appointed inn with my family and enjoyed an enormous meal and the finest wine that could be purchased. It was the last time I sat down with my entire family at once, and the last time I saw Mother or Father.

End Part I

 

 


	2. Part II

The first eight months I spent in Hammerfell consisted mostly of treating minor injuries and setting the basic standard for care within the Legion. I was stationed in Hegathe where the General resided with his Staff and, to my surprise, was placed as second in command of the entire detachment of Healers. The former Adept had deserted in the middle of the night; camp rumor claimed that he eloped with a local woman. Most of the Healers under the command were fresh graduates from the various magic schools across Tamriel, with only a half dozen veterans. Our commander was an old Nord Master by the name of Lorrick, who hated Hammerfell, the heat, the ocean and hated us most of all. We were generally seen as an annoyance by the curmudgeonly Master, and anyone who was injured less than mortally was a malingerer and a "milk-drinker." I was informed by him that he expected me to handle day to day operations.

I had fifty mages under my charge, and of the fifty as many as forty of them could be out in the field with the Legion at any given time. I myself occasionally became attached to units conducting training exercises simply because I ran out of other personnel to send. Around twenty of my Healers were permanently attached to units in other cities including Sentinel, where the General was forced to declare martial law. The Legion suffered its first combat-related fatality during a riot there; three others were so grievously wounded that they had to be transported back to Hegathe for Master Lorrick to attend. I was required to assist him in their treatment and learned a great deal. While working, Lorrick was surprisingly forthcoming and receptive to questions. We placed a metal plate in one young Imperial's skull that had been fractured by an unknown missile dropped from above. It was delicate and tense work. We first removed the splintered pieces of bone, then cut a circular hole in the man's skull to match the measurements of the plate around the fracture. It was made of gold and I queried Master Lorrick if it would not be cheaper to use steel, or even iron. Without answer, he gently placed the plate inside the man's skull, held it with a long thin instrument, and summoned a flame incantation. He carefully traced the perimeter of the metal circle with a glowing finger until the edges began to glow. Once he'd made a complete round he changed his spell to a freezing touch and placed his palm directly onto the plate. He stepped back and gestured for me to look, and I saw now the need for such an expensive material. The gold, which melted quickly and at a low enough heat that there was no danger of damage to the surrounding bone, had fused directly to the skull.

  
"This technique removes the necessity of using pins or screws which can damage the brain," Lorrick's tone was that of an instructor, his usual vitriolic demeanor softened. "You listen well, and have a good mind for this work Adept." I was floored by the compliment and barely managed to utter my gratitude.

Thus began my tutelage under Master Lorrick. I owe everything I know of the Restorative Arts, both mundane and magical, to what that old Nord taught me. He showed me that nearly all the schools of magic can be used to help heal. A powerful illusionary incantation to make the patient feel a pleasant massaging sensation in place of the tremendous and horrible pain of a scalpel slicing through flesh. Swift application of flame can seal the ends of vessels that are pouring lifeblood from a wound, and an apprentice level spell of Alteration can make the wicked barbed head of an embedded arrow as soft and pliable as fresh made dough, allowing easy removal without the risk of further damage. Master Lorrick taught me infinitely more in six months than I had learned in four years at the College. He also insisted I, and all of our men, attend general combat training at least twice a week. "A dead healer is no use to anyone and a blade is the surest way to safeguard your own life."

I started a sick call where the Legionnaires were allowed to come before duty and be seen by one of the Healers for basic ills and injuries. I kept five Apprentices on duty from 5 o clock to 8 o clock, and I set up a separate tent for general and staff officers. It was here that I met my closest and dearest friend Lucius. He was the Legion Vexillary and, as tradition dictated, the youngest and most junior officer in the entire Legion. I had begun packing my things up after an uneventful morning when he pushed the flap aside and lingered, hesitant, in the entryway.

"Come in," I waved to him and began taking things out of my bag, "come in and have a seat."

"Yes, Adept." he paused for a moment, unsure, and then snapped to attention and saluted, adding a "Sir." It took me so much by surprise that I laughed. He tried very hard not to scowl, but did not succeed.

"Sorry, sorry. Vexillary right?" He nodded, relaxing, "I assure you it wasn't my intention to mock you. I'm almost sure that either you outrank me, or that we're peers at the very least, so there's no need to 'sir' me," I gestured to the chair again, "please have a seat. My name is Destan Loche, Adept second grade. You may call me Destan. What is your name?"

"Vexillary Sulla, Adept," he grumbled, taking his seat. I ignored his stubbornness and sat across from him, rolling my sleeves.

"Well Monsieur Sulla," he snorted derisively, "what is it that ails you?" His scowl quickly subsided and, under the deep tan natural to Cyrodiils, I could almost detect a redness to his cheeks. 

"Well Adept," he shifted in the camp seat uncomfortably, "when I awoke this morning to make water I," he paused and the redness increased, "I noticed an intense burning sensation and some sort of discharge," he finally blurted, eyes on the dirt floor. I nodded and asked him a few basic questions, much to his ever growing discomfort, and ascertained that he had picked up a common malady gained from acquiring less than reputable female companionship; generally of the kind that requires an exchange of currency. A common enough occurrence in the camp of an army, but potentially embarrassing for a member of the General's staff.

"Well, there are two options available to you." I stood up and retrieved a pack of instruments neatly rolled up in my bag, "The first is that you return to your quarters and drink large amounts of water until the malady passes." His face scrunched up.

"And what's the second option Adept?"

"The second option," I unrolled the pack and retrieved a long skinny metal rod with a small, smooth cone at the tip, " is that I insert this instrument into the affected area and draw it back out to clear the puss, and then flush the area out with a salve." Lucius blinked at me, expressionless. He sat like that for a while, considering.

"How long will it take the malady to pass on its own?"

"It could pass within a week," I shrugged, "or it could fester and worsen for another month and you'll be right back here having the procedure done anyway."

"Understood. Shall I return, or can you perform it now?"

"Now would be best, " He nodded and I added, "it will take me a few moments to prepare the salve and clean the instrument. I will give you something to numb the pain but if you keep a flask I suggest you empty it."

"Sound advice Adept, I was just thinking the same thing,"

By the time I completed simmering the potion for pain, Lucius had drank half of the brandy in his flask. When I returned after cleaning the instruments and preparing the salve, there was only a swallow left, which I took for myself to steady my hand. He was well and truly prepared, giggling and singing half-comprehensible songs learned in taverns. I used oil from coconuts to lubricate the instrument, and gave Lucius a belt to bite down on. Without a word, he clenched the leather between his teeth and gave me a nod. A sharp intake of breath on entry, and a deep, guttural grunt on the retrieval were the only noises he made. I could hear the leather of the belt squeaking and an alarming crack came from the arms of the examination chair underneath white-knuckled hands. I used a large syringe to take up the salve and applied it to the entry of the phallus to clean the urethra and held the shaft upright for around two minutes. I had mixed in some Juniper berry with the salve, and could see that the cooling sensation brought great relief. I released the phallus and instructed him to remain disrobed until it had completed draining. The entire procedure had taken less than five minutes.

"All done, Vexillary," I'd decided to not further tease the man over formality given the pain I'd just put him through, " there may be blood in your water for a few days and there will be some sensitivity, these are both normal and expected. I'm sending you back to your quarters with an order for two days rest and I expect you to use them. This," I handed him a green bottle, "is medication for the pain. Only take a swallow twice a day, evenly spaced. It should last you for four days." I began tidying up, putting the instrument back into the boiling water, scraping the salve and oil back into their respective containers. Lucius secured his tunic and sword belt once he verified that he was no longer draining salve. He sat back down and remained, pale and sweating, for a long while. I realized once I finished cleaning that he hadn't spoken since before the procedure.

"Vexillary, are you alright? Did you understand my instructions?" He nodded, still staring off into a corner, "Do you need me to do anything else for you? I can escort you to your quarters, or call for a runner if you'd like."

He finally looked up at me. His cheeks puffed and he blew out a long, exhausted breath.

"Doc," his was voice strained, "I believe you can take me for a drink." He smiled and I found myself grinning along with him.

"Of course Vexillary," I held my hand out. He grasped it and pulled me down to eye level.

"Lucius. My name is Lucius, doc. My friends call me Luc."

"Alright Luc, let's get you that drink."

I have been friends with Markus Lucius Sulla ever since. During the rest of our time in Hammerfell we were inseparable. I taught him to conjure forth flame and he showed me the proper way to backswing the mace I carried. He showed me how to compose poetry, and I showed him how to cast a net to catch fish in a river. We chased Redguard women and brawled with their jealous suitors. He would make up terrible drunken songs of our imagined conquests, and I would knit our scrapes and cuts back together before muster. It was a wild and enjoyable time, but one that is enormously bittersweet. Two boys, barely past the threshold of manhood, who were just enjoying life. Perhaps we would have done something differently if we'd known what was coming. Perhaps we would have prepared.

On the eighth month, second week, and third day I was assigned to the Tenth Legion in Hammerfell the Dominion army fell upon our heads and brought the world down around us.

End Part II.

 

 


	3. Part III

 

We were given two days notice before the Dominion attacked Hegathe. A “merchant” vessel (who's captain was a well known smuggler) spotted the black sails on the horizon and used his small, swift craft to gain the day on them and raise the alarm. One day for them to reach shore, and one day to land and organize. That was all the time we had to face a foe that by the Captains account was at least ten times superior to ours.

The first sentiment that swirled through the camp was to flee. Damn the Crowns and damn the Forebears, let them defend the homes they fight so bitterly over. But Hammerfell remained in the Empire, and these notions were squashed with prejudice. There was no feasible way for our divided Legion to fend off such a large force, and becoming trapped behind city walls would merely prolong our deaths and strain the patience of Hegathe. The orders came down that we were to engage the enemy army at the gates, then break out and lead them on a chase, giving the Redguards time to secure and fortify their city. Decius would not be trapped behind stone walls with no hope of reinforcement or resupply. It was a dangerous gamble, but one he firmly believed was necessary. Lead the Thalmor away, then break off and make for the High Rock border.

Preparations were feverish. Master Lorrick and I spent the bulk of our time securing every ingredient, potion, medicine, instrument and reference book we could lay hands on. Of our fifty Healers only twenty five were within the city, and we turned them out to retrieve anything that could be made into a bandage. Sheets, head wraps, robes, cloaks, any piece of cloth that could be cut into strips was borrowed, begged for or outright stolen. I donned the robe given to me on graduation and tested the enchantment. The magic flowed through me as easily aa breath, and taxed me very little. I tied on my belt, secured my mace and slung my pack which was full of poultices, potions and bandages already prepared for the coming battle.

The worst part of violence is the waiting. Once battle commences, there are a thousand tasks at hand to keep your mind and body occupied. You can set aside your fear and focus simply on doing one thing after another. But the waiting, the threat of impending carnage, is maddening. I didn't sleep a wink the night before the battle, imaging that every noise was the sound of a trumpet calling, or a spell smashing into the city's walls. It seems foolish to me now, how hard I listened for the slightest noise. War is a cacophony, and there's no mistaking it for a bump in the night.

Master Lorrick, five Healers and fifteen spearmen loaded up the medical cart and waited for the caravan to begin moving. Lorrick cursed his old age and frail bones and cursed the Thalmor for not coming twenty years before.

“What will I tell my ancestors in Sovengarde? Will I stand beyond the gates and cry, ‘But I was too old grandfather! Ysgramor, have pity! I would have stood as mighty as your Companions had battle found me in my youth!’” He spat in disgust, “Piss on them, damned elves. If I cannot enter Sovengarde for bravery then I will enter with cleverness. Go now, Destan, go and bloody your mace.” I gave the old master the first salute I'd ever given him. He returned a less polite gesture. I headed for the main gate.

I have trouble remembering the overall flow of the battle, but I remember vividly certain moments. I do know that the Legionaries bottled the Thalmor up just inside the main gate in an attempt to negate their superior numerical advantage, and I recall it working for a time. My friend Lucius was there, waving the standard and shouting encouragement, singing at the top of his lungs as well. The men answered him and above the din of the fighting one could hear old Legion war songs erupting from hundreds of strong bellies. I was treating a soldier who'd taken an arrow to his gut when a blast of hot air, as if from a huge blacksmith's bellows, smashed into him and I, and the world went insane.

A massive fireball, likely the collaborative effort of several Thalmor magi, had smashed completely through the line at the gate and the tall golden elves poured in like dancing gods of death. I struggled to lift the man I'd been treating, unable to tear my eyes away from the carnage of the blast. He was completely limp and when I finally looked upon him is saw a massive piece of metal had split his head in half. I let him drop to the ground and drew my mace, conjuring a spark in my offhand. I looked around, desperate to find something to do. Should I run for the caravan? Should I try to find wounded and help them? Should I turn and fight? A tall figure robed in black trotted directly in front of me and without thinking I swung my mace. The Altmer had begun to look in my direction and the big, ugly iron head caught him full in the face. He crumpled silently and his leg twisted unnaturally beneath him. His head was an unrecognizable lump of mashed flesh, blood, bone and several teeth that had cut their way through his lips. I stared for a moment, thinking how easy it had been to kill him, when his body twitched. The mace came down again and again, a blind rage and desperate terror fueling my blows. I ceased when the iron skipped off the hard stone of the road and I realized there was no head left to strike. I blinked and ran a hand over my face. I felt something gritty and wet and held my hand before my eyes. Bits of gore and bone covered my glove. I retched for a few moments.

There was a flurry of activity all at once. So much happened so swiftly that I was unable to process it, I simply reacted. I simply survived. I became aware that we were in danger of letting the Thalmor break into the city and that nothing short of a miracle would save us. I hurled fire and lightning at the black shapes of the Dominion locked in mortal struggle with the red shapes of Legionnaires. A big brute of an Orc off to my left, having lost his weapon somehow, ripped off the helmet of an enemy and used it to bash the elf’s head in. An Imperial staggered past me, his pace unhurried and his path meandering. His face was pale and a bit confused, but otherwise he seemed unperturbed by the fact that his arm ended in a stump at the elbow. I gently led him to a quiet corner and sat him down. He made small talk, as if my frantic and blood-slick work was a simple routine check-up. I gave him a distilled potion to dull the pain and revitalize his spirit and then summoned a slow flame to sear the stump shut. I had neither the time nor the energy to close the flesh with healing magic, and I’m sure that I caused him great pain and discomfort for a long time after, but I undoubtedly saved his life. I tried very hard to breathe through my mouth so as not to gag at the sickly sweat smell of his burning skin. After I bandaged the wound, I sent the shocked soldier on a mission to find Master Lorrick and return with some bandages, knowing full well that the old Master would put the man out as soon as he saw him. He was happy to help, and set off with a purpose, no longer stumbling or confused.

The battle reached a fever-pitch when I returned, and I soon found myself engulfed by the melee. This is another part that is unclear in my memory. Blood and steel, bones crushed and flesh opened, terror and outrage poured from my entire being. I remember feeling as though my arm would fall off from fatigue but still somehow gathering the strength to strike again. I found myself in a sudden lull when a hand grasped me desperately by the elbow. I spun, weapon raised, and met the gaze of a Redguard in local attire. The man began pleaded with me and pulled me away from the fighting, apparently recognizing that my robes marked me as a healer.

“My brother, Master, come quickly. He's dying," his fear was palpable. I followed him around a corner and into an alleyway where he had dragged his wounded brother. Much to my surprise, the bloody form lying on the cobblestones was wearing the heavy steel armor of the Legion. On his chest was a bloody, smoking hole that looked as though it went all the way through.

“Help him, please. Please don't let him die, please Master Healer. Please,” the local man was near hysterical with terror and grief, his eyes welled up with water. It became very important to me that this man lived. I drew my knife and offered it to him, handle first.

“Cut that armor off, quickly.” He leapt into action and sliced at straps with swift, deft motions. Tears rolled down his cheeks while he worked. I rolled up my sleeves and cleaned my arms off as best I could. A dozen knicks and cuts leaked fresh blood but I managed to get most of the grime and gore off. The brother yanked hard on the cuirass and tossed it to the side. I knelt down and beagn my work.

The man’s chest rose weakly and I could see bright red blood oozing from his wound at irregular intervals. I checked his wrist and found his pulse. Weak, erratic, just as I had feared.

“You'll want to look away friend,” I said softly to the brother without turning. He hesitated, then threw his hands on top of his head and walked to the end of the alley. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When I opened them I pushed my hand inside the dying man's chest. His ribs, broken and jagged, gouged my wrist. I wiggled my hand deeper and deeper until I was nearly to my elbow before my hand clasped around his heart. I felt it pump, but there was no rhythm. The pattern was wild and erratic as if something it couldn't understand was happening and it was in a panic. I searched the outside of the pulsing mass with my fingers until I finally found it. A hole, no bigger than my thumb torn in the side of his heart, blood gushing from it. I plugged it and began to concentrate intensely. Sweat beaded on my brow and my free hand began to shake with the effort. I put every ounce of will and power into my hand, into the thumb plugging the hole, into the heart trying to pump itself to destruction. Slowly at first, and then all at once the hole sealed. Without pause I grasped the entire heart in my palm and began massaging it, trying to match it’s beating with my own. I could hear mine pounding clearly in my head and felt near to exhaustion. After a few minutes I stopped, held it in my palm and waited. I let out a sigh of relief that it held and collapsed.

After coming to a few moments later I, with the help of the brother who was weeping and alternating between thanking me and all of the Divines, cleaned and bandaged the man's wounds. Together we made a makeshift stretcher out of a few broken spears and my own cloak, and I decided to help carry the wounded man to the rear. I was nearing total exhaustion and planned on gathering a few restorative concoctions from Master Lorrick. We hoisted him as gently as possible onto the stretcher, lifted him and cautiously made our way to the mouth of the alleyway. I peered out towards the gate and, much to my dismay, saw a swarm of black armored forms pouring in. The remaining Legionaries had formed a half circle to block the entrance, but were being pressed hard. It would not be long before the Thalmor broke through and entered the city. So distracted was I that I only barely noticed the sudden rumbling beneath my feet. I looked the other way after finally taking notice, and my heart leapt up into my throat. Pounding down the main thoroughfare, I witnessed the General leading the entire cavalry detachment in tight formation. He stood in the saddle and called out to the others, half turning to look at them. Then with a flourish he drew his sword and signaled the charge, and cries arose from two hundred throats as they thundered forward to aid the beleaguered troops. I heard the terrible sound of thousands of pounds of angry flesh and steel crashing, the screams of the dying and the shocked, the triumphant yells of the desperate Legionaries. I saw an Altmer sail above the heads of his comrades and watched as he landed in a sickening heap. I looked to the brother, who's face was a mirror of my own awe at such a terrific sight, and without speaking we both agreed to make our escape immediately.

My heart pumped poison that burned my limbs. My legs had become solid lead, and I tasted copper in my mouth. Something was doing its best to drive my shoulder blades apart and the only way I knew I hadn't dropped the stretcher was the insufferable weight tugging at my numb arms. We ran through abandoned streets, doors barred shut and windows locked tight. I could feel eyes that peered out through cracked shades on my back. The city was quiet as a grave save for the dull noises of battle behind us. The silence was oppressive, and my ears rang so loudly I feared I was going deaf. Occasionally a soldier would sprint past us, carrying some urgent communique to the waiting caravan, or a horseman would blaze towards the fighting. We trudged on, our gait made awkward by our cargo. A creeping terror spread across my chest that I would collapse, but the thought of failing the man I'd saved so close to the end galvanized my spirit. I gritted my teeth and trudged on.

When we arrived at the rear, an apprentice I didn't recognize ran over and called to some nearby soldiers for aid. I eased the wounded man down, gave his brother a nod and then turned to walk towards our wagon when everything went dark and the ground swelled up and struck me. I awoke briefly several times. Once Master Lorrick held a foul tasting potion to my lips and bade me drink, before waving his hand over my head and muttering an incantation. Again, much later, the cart was moving and I stared up at the night sky. Too exhausted to question it,and feeling pleasantly warm and floaty from whatever Lorrick gave me, I allowed myself to slip back into sleep.

I awoke on the first full day of the terrible event now known as the March of Thirst. It was one of the most trying times of my life.

 

End Part III

 


	4. Part IV

 

I, like many other survivors, consider the March of Thirst to one of the lowest points of my life. My dear friend and fellow veteran of the Tenth Lucius Sulla has written an excellent and comprehensive book series detailing the March, so I have decided not to delve too far into it here. A few things of note happened during the March that affected me greatly throughout the years. Some of it still does.

Out of the twenty Healers that were alive and present at the start of the battle in Hegathe, only twelve of us walked into the desert. Of those twelve, only five of us walked out. Our lack of water was the greatest killer, followed closely by the heat. Even after we ceased marching during the day, instead taking cover under makeshift shelters until dusk, men would die from overheating or thirst. Their comrades would go to rouse them from sleep and find them stiff, their eyes staring into the void. It was especially hard on the Nords in the Legion, including Master Lorrick. The two of us shared a shelter that was merely two tarpaulins bound together and lashed down to our heavy packs with a pole supporting the middle. The heat affected him so greatly that at noon I would rise, throw open the flaps and freeze a folded cloth with a simple Frost spell for him to wrap around his neck. He would curse me for a fool for wasting my Magicka, but would accept the cloth and lie back weakly all the same.

Around the tenth day a young Bosmer, one of the carriage drivers, was kicked and then trampled by an oxen that went mad from thirst. His condition was dire, but it was a blessing to old Lorrick and I. Finally we could do something to save someone, rather than sitting by helpless to stop the constant death around us. Unfortunately, while we were treating the young Mer’s battered body, he suddenly awoke in a fit of terror and rage. The ox had struck his head, and he was very confused and frightened. He began to fight, threw Master Lorrick to the ground and pummeled , scratched and even attempted to bite me. I pinned him to the table to stop him from causing further injury, to he and I both, and tried desperately to keep him there. I almost fell over when his body went entirely rigid and his grip lost all strength. I looked to find Lorrick straining to hold the Paralyzing spell over the boy, the old Nord doubled over and quivering with pain. I knew he would not be able to keep the spell long enough for me to find and administer a sleeping drought, so I did the one thing I could think of. I stood, aimed carefully, and drove a punch directly into the Bosmer’s chin. His eyes, the only thing capable of movement, rolled up into the back of his head and I knew he was unconscious. He faded away not a moment too soon. Lorrick collapsed in a heap and suddenly I had two patients.

Master Lorrick passed two days later. The fight and subsequent fall had broken his hip. Combined with the sheer strain of the paralyzation spell, the lack of water and adequate food, and his stubborn refusal of treatment proved too much for his old body to take. I awoke at noon that day, flung open the flaps and prepared his frozen rag, along with a stiff potion for pain. When he didn't stir and didn't respond to my calls, I turned him over by the shoulder. I knew he was dead, but I checked his wrinkled neck for a heartbeat anyway. Even in the blazing heat of the desert his skin was cold as ice. I sat and looked at him for a long time. He looked so frail, so old, this curmudgeonly Master of Aetherius who taught me so much. He'd seemed invincible, more like a vibrant force of nature than a mere man. Yet there he was, lips cracked and eyes vacant. One of the Apprentices came to our tent for supplies and found me there with him. He snapped me out of my haze, and together we managed to scrounge up enough wood to build the old Nord a pyre. We sent his soul to Sovengarde just before dusk, the sun dancing in different shades of orange and pink in the smoke. When the sun set, we packed our things up and moved out.

Many more men died before we reached the High Rock border, and I became totally numb to it. I, being the senior Healer, was promoted to Master and given the unenviable task of cataloging new casualties. I went about this duty with a cold precision, as if I were counting swords or sacks of grain instead of people. We continued to treat those injured in the battle, but that too was like shoveling sand against the tide. Without proper rest, nutrition and clean water, many of the wounds became infected and festered. We lacked enough water to clean them with, and so were reduced to removing the corruption as best we could with our hands and blades. Many of them died of fever. Lucius nearly lost his leg to stubbornness and machismo before the General himself ordered him to report to me and gave him a horse. Several of my Healers dropped dead from exhaustion caused by the constant casting of Restorative spells, so I was forced to forbid its use except under the most dire circumstances. I truly believe that every last one of them would have sacrificed their own lives to save those of their comrades.

More than my position changed after Lorrick died. I slept less and less, and not simply because of the increase of my duties. Every time I drifted into deep sleep I began to see the battle at the gate, but more surreal and impossible. The Altmer I killed after the line was breached was suddenly nearly ten feet tall, and my mace hung so heavy in my hands I could barely hold onto it. He would bend down, leering at me, taunting me with a rictus grin and bulging eyes. I would finally manage to swing my mace of stone, the motion always agonizingly slow and the blow itself flaccid. By sheer weight alone his face would split and deform, bones turned to powder and rearranged, but still he advanced. Always menacing, always leering, growing ever larger with every step. I would then, without explanation, suddenly find myself searching for the dying Redguard’s heart, arm buried in his chest. I would reach and reach, until my shoulder stopped my from going any further, but found nothing aside from hollow space. The man stared at me and told me of his children and his wife, demeanor calm and collected. His brother, hysterical, stood above me and dug claw-like fingers into my scalp, screeching madness the entire time. I could feel my flesh being peeled away beneath his talons and the blood that ran hot down my back and dribbled off of my brow. I would find myself standing in the street, just in time to watch the massive fireball arch through the air and feel it smash into the lines at the gate. Searing hot air blasted me and blistered my skin. There was no exaggeration to the smoking pile of gore and corpses that remained. It was a perfect recollection of every detail. Every piece of burnt flesh, scorched cloth and heat deformed metal was exactly as I remembered it.

 An Old Nord drug himself away from the carnage, pulling his lifeless body with a single arm. He crawled towards me, flesh sloughing off in grotesque lumps that stuck to the cobblestones. I would try to go to him, to render aid, or even to put him out of his misery, but remained frozen and silent. Finally his eyes would rise to meet my gaze. Eyes the pale blue of thick ice, hair white as a northern snow. Master Lorrick would stare up at me, his face burned nearly beyond recognition, flesh dripping from his bones. Every time I slept he would raise a skeletal finger to me and utter a single sentence.

 “Death is coming, boy, Death is coming for us all.”

 I snapped awake soaked in ice cold sweat, the smell of seared flesh still dangled faintly in my memory. Terror gripped my chest and I felt as if I were suffocating. Every day I had the same nightmare. Lorrick, the Altmer and the Redguard brothers terrorized me while I slept, and haunted my memory while I marched. I became anxious to the point of paranoia, Lorrick’s cryptic message repeating itself in my head. It became almost a mantra at times, my steps mirroring the tempo of the words. I became incredibly irritable and increasingly paranoid. I attempted imbibing a sleeping drought, alleged to give the drinker a gentle and dreamless sleep, but found that it made my dreams more vivid and terrible, and did nothing for my general level of distress when I was awake.

 I attributed it to stress caused by the Legion’s dire situation. While I was recording the deaths of three soldiers, two Imperials and a Dunmer, I found a half empty bottle of Colovian brandy and a large jug of Sujamma among their belongings. Even though I was aware that consuming alcohol would greatly increase my thirst, I was desperate for relief from my constant torment. I started with a few swallows before lying down. That night I dreamed of fishing with my father in Autumn, the world red and orange and yellow, the breeze coming off the water giving us a slight chill. Father threw a fur across my shoulders and gave me a smile. When I awoke to the brutal reality of the March, I began drinking in earnest.

 Even after we were saved by the roaming Alik'r, who led us from oasis to oasis until we reached the High Rock border, I continued to drink. It calmed my constant anxiety and returned my compassion for others. I convinced myself that I had it completely under control, and attempted to monitor my consumption and set a hard daily limit. I would always find some reason to have another swallow though, some horrible image or creeping panic. I soon found myself unable to function normally without at least a few drinks in my belly and just a general discomfort would find me reaching for my flask.

 The Alik'r happily provided the Tenth with a stout brew made from fermented goats milk, and this became my drink of choice until we returned to civilization. I was consistently drunk, even as I made tally of casualties and supplies, or delivered reports personally to the General. I was given a commendation alongside several other officers and around a dozen common troopers once we reached the border, and was drunk the entire ceremony. My award was specifically for, “Composure and dedication under extreme adversity, and consistently performing above and beyond the expected duties.” General Decanius gave these awards to us himself, looking each man in the eye and addressing him personally. He pinned the ribbon to the tattered and ragged lapel of my robe and took my hand in a grip that defied the tired look in his demeanor.

 “Master Loche,” his deep brown eyes beamed with pride, like a father seeing his son excel for the first time, “it is my opinion that this Legion would not have survived at all were it not for the efforts of yourself and your Healers. The loss of Master Lorrick saddened me tremendously and was a great blow to the Tenth. But you rose to the occasion and filled his daunting boots with great determination and commitment. I am honored to know men like you. Wear this with pride.” The words came off as rehearsed, yet truly heartfelt. I nodded and swallowed a lump in my throat and thanked him. He moved on to the officer beside me. I swayed a little before catching myself.

 We staggered into High Rock and bivouacked near the river that marked the border. For three days all semblance of military discipline and order were abandoned, ironically, by command of the General. Men sat on the bank of the massive waterway and lounged about beneath great oaks. I taught a few of the lads how to cast, my rod having bizarrely survived the entire March in perfect condition on our cart. Folk from several nearby villages brought us hundreds of pounds of pork and beef, kegs of ale and cases of wine, bushels of apples and bunches of vegetables fresh from their gardens. The men prepared the meat and ensured not one Legionnaire’s tankard ran dry, whilst the women cooked and served delicious chops of meat cooked with onions and leeks and tomatoes. They glanced at us with genuine concern, and a few held pity in their eyes, but all were kind and generous. An Alderman presented the Staff officers with an entire case of locally brewed liquor made from grain and sweetened with strawberries. It was fantastic.

 We were in total shock at having survived our ordeal, and we laughed and truly let our guard down for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. At night, however, you could hear men crying out in their sleep or the soft weeping of a soldier fresh from some horrible nightmare, followed by the gentle reassurances of his comrades. It was joy tinged with sorrow, elation tainted by guilt and a hollow sadness. When I think on it now I realize that we were simply children, tired and scared and yearning for home, with only each other to rely on. There was a desperate feeling in the air as well. Many knew that they would not see the passage of another year. Three days was just long enough to allow us rest without giving the men too much time to reflect on their ordeal. I, for one, spent the majority of the convalescence in a total state of drunkenness.

 On the final day Lucius and another Captain from our reinforcing Legion forces, along with several other officers, arrived in our camp. There was a Legion wide feast and after General Decanius gave a galvanizing speech, that included a somber toast to our honored dead, the jubilation went on long into the night. We celebrated our survival, mourned our dead, and excised the final bits of anarchy and wildness. The next morning we arose as one with the dawn and set about the task of building the Tenth back to strength.

  I had the wondrous task of giving a final count of all surviving Legionnaires and Officers to General Decanius. I started out attempting to account for the missing and dead, but quickly realized it would be easier the other way around. At final tally the Tenth had 4,307 men surviving, including wounded. More than half of the Legion had died in the invasion, or lay buried beneath the shifting sands of the great Alik'r. Of those who remained nearly all were malnourished and over half had injuries of some kind. The General collapsed into his camp chair when I gave him the report and even his chief Legate, an enormous and dour brute of an Orc the men called “The Beast”, looked as if he would be ill.

 “Spurn of Malacath,” the Legate growled. He spat, either in disgust or to ward off some evil spirit. General Decanius rubbed his palm hard over his face and sat with his hand mouth over his mouth for a long while. His face became hard, and I watched the muscles in his jaw work. His countenance became terrifying, so great was his fury, and he jumped up so suddenly I took a step back. His fists slammed down onto his battered old desk.

 “There will be a reckoning for this, I swear by the Nine.” His eyes shot up to mine and burned fiercely with rage. “Prepare yourself, Master, for there will be much and more blood very soon. Dismissed,” he barked. I spun on my heel, careful not to stagger, and sped away from the General’s wrath. I heard him bellow into the night for a long while. I went and found Lucius, who I had seen little of during the March because of our respective duties, and we drank ourselves into a stupor and spoke very little. Both of us knew there was much more violence ahead. Neither of us knew if we would survive it.

 

End Part IV


	5. Part V

At daybreak the morning after the Tenth’s impromptu feast, orders came down that we were to make for Wayrest the next day. A portion of the troops dispatched to reinforce the Legion were already there building a fortified camp outside the city, with the remainder scheduled to arrive within a week. The command was passed that we would arrive in as perfect a military fashion as was possible, in formation, and in battle dress. We all set about cleaning everything that could be cleaned, which included ourselves. Every man was required to bathe. The horses and oxen that remained were also led down to the water, given a good scrubbing, and meticulously brushed and groomed. As I scrubbed the accumulated grime and muck off of my skin I observed a shocking reminder of our ordeal; there was not a single man amongst us who’s ribs I could not count. Bellies looked hollow, cheeks were gaunt and eyes had sunk into their sockets. Even the Legate, an Orc renowned for being a towering mound of muscle, had not been immune to the strain the March put on our bodies. His skin, which had been stretched from years of building muscle, hung loose and wrinkled from his body.

Once I had scraped the filth from my body and untangled my hair, which had become one giant mat, I stepped from the river and felt as if I’d been reborn. I used my cloak to dry myself with, and came upon an amusing sight. About a dozen Nords, fresh and clean from the river, had all gathered around in a group. Pots of freshly made Woad paint sat scattered about, and the big fair-haired warriors chatted and laughed as they braided each other’s hair and applied their family’s ancestral patterns. I recalled having seen similar scenes when my sister Anya and the other ladies from nearby had gathered to prepare for a banquet or a ball. The girls would pair up and painstakingly brush on their makeup and weave intricate patterns into their locks. I chuckled at the comparison until a somber thought sprang, unbidden and unwanted, into my mind.

I wonder what Lorrick’s Woad looked like. Would he have sat amongst them?

My smile faded and I forced the lump in my throat back down into my chest. I set my things down and rummaged through pockets until I found the silver flask Lucius had given me. I took a long drink and walked on.

The trip was almost entirely unremarkable and I often found that the gentle motion of the cart lulled me to sleep. The road itself was well maintained and smooth, the countryside nothing but gentle rolling hills, green pastures, and sparse forests. Spring was in full bloom and the land was a sea of green dotted with bright splashes of reds and blues and yellows. One of the villagers near our bivouac site had gifted me a finely crafted pipe and a pouch of tobacco and, when I wasn’t tending to the wounded or napping, I blew great clouds of smoke and sipped on the last of the strawberry-sweetened liquor and watched the land crawl by. It was enough to make our ordeal in the Alik’r seem like a bad dream, and that we were safe now. The General’s words echoed in my mind and brought me back to reality.

“Prepare yourself, Master, for there will be much and more blood very soon.”

We passed several villages along the way and at all of them every single villager would turn out and line the roads. They cheered to us, passed the soldiers sweets and bread and gifts. Flock of young children ran before the head of the formation, and young ladies weaved in and out and placed crowns made of flowers on the heads of the Legionnaires. Some would shyly plant kisses upon soldiers cheeks before dashing away to giggle with her friends. It shocked us all to the extreme, though some of us took to it better than others. I watched Lucius pull a young maid up into the saddle with him and go dashing around the formation, much to her delight. He bellowed out the marching song of the Tenth and four-thousand voices called back to him with zeal. We were heroes, it seemed, and the men’s back became a little straighter, their heads held up just a little higher.

We made excellent time. Mid-morning on the third day Wayrest came into view. The sprawling metropolis lay at the mouth of the Bjoulsae river, it’s stone walls seemed as old as the land itself. Dozens of spires gave it a distinct silhouette and for the first time I felt as if I had come home. Father had taken us to Wayrest many times to work out of the office there, and a wave of nostalgia washed over me at the sight. I drank a toast to better days.

As we drew closer to city we laid eyes on the camp. An enormous fortress built to exact Legion standards, out of timber from one of the nearby forests, with the bonus of an old stone tower in the center. The tower was one of the many watchtowers that surrounded Wayrest and had been lent to the Legion by the King himself. As we approached the camp a small retinue of horsemen emerged from the gate and trotted towards us.

Seven men reigned up and were greeted by General Decanius. Three of them wore the armor of the Legion. I supposed they were the interim commander and his staff, while the other four sat proudly in their saddles in full steel plate. Emblazoned upon their shields was the crest of the Order of the White Rose, the King’s personal guard. Once they were introduced, their leader raised his visor and dipped his lance, a sign of great respect not lost on the General. Decanius removed his glove and stuck out his hand. The Commander seemed surprised but quickly removed his own lobstered gauntlet and grasped the General’s forearm in a traditional warrior’s embrace. The group conversed for a while and when they were finished the General, the Knights, and the other Legion officers wheeled off towards the city. Our Legate, the Brute, roared out a command and led the formation into the camp.

We were greeted by a fully thriving and bustling camp full of soldiers, builders, and auxiliary personnel. An adjutant, dispatched by the current commanding officer, directed us towards the casualty collection area and offered to show me to my quarters. I gave my Healers charge of the wounded and, after being assured that there was ample staff to handle the sudden influx, was guided by the cheery Colovian to my tent. He chatted and jabbered the entire way all the while weaving in and out of tent rows, groups of soldiers running to and fro, and lines of animals being guided by near frantic drivers. I ignored most of what he said, but managed to glean that the commander hadn’t been expecting us until tomorrow, which explained why everyone seemed in such a hurry.

“Here we are, Master Loche,” he declared. He stopped so abruptly that I nearly collided with him and I opened my mouth to utter an exclamation. I promptly closed it again. My “tent” was a semi-permanent wood and canvas construction with a hide roof and door that was larger than the room I had shared with four others in Hegathe. “Will there be anything else, sir?” I shook my head slowly and in a flash he was gone. I stepped cautiously through the flap. I half expected some high ranking official to cry out because I was dropping in to their quarters unannounced, that this was some trick the sly adjutant had played on me as part of a proper “welcome”. The tent was empty however, save for the furniture. I was in genuine shock at how richly appointed the room was. A study writing desk and chair, a large cot piled with furs and pillows, even a tall wooden wardrobe. A chest sat at the end of the bed, and along the wall to my left sat an alchemy table. Mortar and pestle, a large Alembic, an Alchemist’s retort, and even a Calcinator were gathered there. I stepped over quickly to check their quality and noticed that the floor was made of wooden planks. I shook my head in disbelief. A note caught my eye.

“Master Loche,

I regret my inability to welcome you formally and in person. Hopefully these quarters suit your needs adequately. There are robes and insignia befitting your rank and specialization in your wardrobe. Please provide my adjutant with a list of required alchemical ingredients so that he may begin gathering them. I look forward to making the pleasure of your acquaintance at dawn tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Grandmaster Lorialia”

I eyed the instruments before me and realized I’d never seen such finely crafted equipment. I read the letter again and looked once more about the room. I began to laugh. The laugh became a cackle, and before I knew it I was nearly doubled over and tears streamed down my face. It was all too absurd and surreal. My amusement subsided somewhat, and I kicked off my boots and leapt onto the cot. Bone tired from the road, and thanks to the fact that I felt truly safe for the first time since Hegathe I immediately drifted off to sleep.

The nightmares returned. I walked through the desert alone, the dunes bathed in an eerie blue by the light of Masser and Secundus. I dragged my feet through the ever shifting sands, my legs heavy as if made of lead. The only sound that cut through the night was the shrill whistle of the wind. I peered behind me occasionally, and began to catch suggestions of movement just on the edge of my periphery. After what seemed like an age I turned around fully, though I continued to walk backwards, and saw clearly what I had been searching for. A Legion of walking corpses followed me, all in various states of decomposition. They moved with complete silence and shared the same terrible halting gait. These were my comrades, my brothers, members of the Tenth. I had no reason to be afraid. I stopped to allow the lead corpse to pass me by, with the intent that I would check down the line to make sure no one fell behind. When the first cadaver reached me, a short and stocky man who’d had brown hair in life if what clung to his exposed skull was any clue, his leg snapped completely in two and he collapsed in a heap. All of his pieces, including ones that still held flesh, came apart like some macabre puzzle. Alarmed, I picked up the limbs and bones as quickly as I could and tried to fit him back together. More of the silent marchers came on an one by one they fell to ruin when they reached me. I began to panic then, and attached limbs to the wrong bodies and fought against the tide of blood that rose up to my knees. Their mouths moved but no sound came out, nothing broke the silence save the constant shrill howl of the wind. The pool of blood reached up to my waist now and I was forced to fish blindly beneath its surface for bodies and parts. I plopped an Orc’s head on a Bosmeri body, accidentally put an elbow where a knee went. Not matter how hard I fought or how quickly I moved still more poured into the pool, until I was bouncing on the tips of my toes to keep my head above the gore. The marchers were no more, save one. A tall man with fair hair and blue eyes that shimmered in the gloom. His skeletal hand rose from his side and pointed directly at me.

“Death is coming, boy, Death is coming for us all.”

I snapped awake. A scream erupted from my throat and my knife was to hand. The sun had begun to set, but in the low light I could see a silhouette in my new quarters that lurked by the doorway. My scream of terror became a battle cry. I roared and sprang from the cot. Furs and quilts scattered across the room. The intruder made for something on his belt. On reflex I leapt upon him and we tumbled into the dark. The tent that had seemed so huge was suddenly a small cramped space where the two of us struggled for our lives.

End Part V.


	6. Part VI

“Master Loche!”

 

The cry cut rang out in the still air of the night. Beneath me the darkened form held on to my knife hand with a strength fueled by desperation. It’s legs scrambled for purchase in an attempt to push away from me. The voice cut through the fog in my head. Lilting, almost sing-song. My alleged assailant had done nothing to attack, had done nothing but try to defend itself. The hands that clutched my wrist were small and I smelled a faint scent of wildflowers. I pushed myself up on my knees, and in one swift motion disengaged and stepped back. The figure scrambled once again and I used the momentary break to cast a hovering illumination spell. The room was illuminated suddenly with a dazzling white light. My heart dropped and I thought I would be ill when my would be “assassin” came clearly into view.

 

She was a woman, a few years younger than I, with long curly brown hair that sat in a disheveled mess on top of her head. She wore the robes of the Shadow Legion and looked very delicate. Bright green eyes peered out at me in a mixture of terror and confusion.

 

“Identify yourself” I barked, blade still raised. She blinked against the light a few times and then jumped up. I jerked back reflexively. She dusted off her robe and shook out her hair before coming to attention.

 

“Chief Adept Arienne Montclair sir, reporting to Master Loche as ordered.” She snapped off a hasty salute and withdrew a rolled piece of parchment from a satchel on her hip. I took it from her, finally feeling comfortable enough to lower my knife, and examined the seal for a moment. It was correct, the Eye of Magnus imposed on the Imperial Dragon, so I broke it open and began to read. After a few moments I realized that the woman was still standing stock still, rigid as a board. I felt a sudden pang of remorse deep in my gut.

 

“Please,  _ madame,  _ relax.” I pulled out the single chair and gestured to it, “Here, have a seat.” She hesitated, uncertain for a moment, but did as she was bid

 

“Yes sir.” I could hear the tension in her voice. Someone, who sounded suspiciously like my mother, in my head wondered loudly if I’d gone mad and asked if I was going to continue acting like a savage. I put the paper away quickly and lit the lantern dangling from the ceiling along with the candles on the table and workstation. I went over to the shaken woman and crouched down in front of her. I found her gaze and held it.

 

“I’d like to apologize, Adept Montclair. I hope I didn’t injure you,” she shook her head politely.

 

“Simply gave me a fright is all, sir. I nearly died when the pile of blankets suddenly came alive and set upon me.” A smile, the kind one adopts in the face of absolute ridiculousness, had crept its way across her face and I found it contagious.

 

“I fear I am fatigued from being in the field for so long. I hope you can forgive me.” I stood and held my hand out. She rose and took it with a firm grip, her confidence restored.

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

“Excellent,” I spun around and fished through my pack. I returned to the table with a bottle of wine I’d nicked from the quartermaster and two pewter cups. “Now,” I spoke as I poured each of us a glass, “let us share a drink and you can tell me what ever it is that’s written in that dreadfully dull looking report.” I handed her a glass and made a toast to “first impressions.” She laughed and took a healthy gulp of wine. It was just then, in the soft light of the candles and with her eyes lit up by a smile, that I realized she was devastatingly beautiful. Her face was soft yet angular, offering the barest suggestion of our race’s elven heritage, with high cheekbones and a generous smile framed by full lips. I admired the paleness of her alabaster skin and long, graceful, neck when her head tilted slightly and I remembered it was impolite to stare. I downed my cup in one gulp and dragged the empty chest over to use as a makeshift seat.

 

After initial pleasantries Arienne caught me up on the news throughout the Empire. My mood grew dark again when I learned how the war had progressed. Almost all of the Southern coast of Hammerfell had fallen; in addition to the forces that had landed on our doorstep, a massive Thalmor host had invaded from the East by making a mad dash through Cyrodiil and attacking the coast by way of Gilane. Hegathe was the only city that still held on, completely cut off and under constant siege. Another army had invaded the Imperial province from the south, and both Leyawiin and Bravil had been captured. The host in Hammerfell was attempting to stamp out all resistance and to breach the walls of Hegathe, but the other in Cyrodiil was pushing deeper towards the Imperial City. The Tenth was to be reinforced to 20,000 men and joined by the Seventh and the newly raised Thirteenth. General Decanius would head the three Legions, the Tenth would be passed along to the freshly promoted Legate Justanius Quintius, a veteran Captain who was well liked by the men. I was to take command of the entire detachment of 1200 Healers due to my, “Extraordinary abilities and in light of recent experience.” The new Grandmaster was charging me personally with ensuring that all of my new and inexperienced Healers received adequate training to prepare them for the coming campaign. Arienne would serve as my Executive Officer.

 

“The big question,” Arienne took a sip of wine before continuing, “is when the Army will move.” I nodded and refilled my cup. I offered to do the same for her but she waved me away. “Depending on how long the Thalmor spend fighting the locals on the coast, and how long Hegathe holds out, we may have anywhere from a month or two all the way up to a year.” She closed her leather bound journal, stuffed it into her satchel, and stood. “I’ll let you catch up on your rest Master Loche, we have a busy day tomorrow. The Grandmaster requests your presence in the morning, and we are scheduled to meet with your staff immediately after. Following that, you may wish to address your Healers and begin work on creating a training schedule.” I laughed and got up off the chest.

 

“Will it be like this everyday, you telling me what I have to do the next?” She blushed and looked around embarrassed. “It’s alright Arienne, I was only teasing you. Thank you,” I put my hand on her shoulder and gave her a smile, which she returned. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” I bit down hard on my tongue because I very nearly remarked on how much easier it would be for her to wake me in the morning if she stayed the night. We bade each other goodnight and she left. Just before she made it through the flap however, she turned, looked me in the eye, and smiled before she disappeared into the night. I blew out the lantern and the candles and fell face first onto my cot, a smile still on my lips. My dreams that night took on a more pleasurable tone than the one previous. 

 

I rose before the sun the next day and washed myself. I brushed my beard and hair until they shined and put on one of the sleek new robes that hung in my wardrobe. I had convinced myself that I wanted to make a good impression on the Grandmaster and my men, but the fact that Arienne was supposed to escort me around had more to do with my sudden interest in my personal appearance. She complimented the way the new robe looked on me when she arrived, which filled my stomach with butterflies, and together we made for the old tower at the center of camp.

 

Grandmaster Lorialia was an elderly Altmer woman who was incredibly polite and professional. She did not bandy words but was not rude either. Due to her race a lot of the men mistrusted or flat out disliked her, but it was difficult to hold a negative opinion of the Mer for long. She greeted me, congratulated me on my excellent performance in the field, and told me that she had every confidence that I would perform my duties satisfactorily. I was informed that she was had a very hands off approach when it came to her Master’s command doctrine; all of us, in her mind, were competent enough to reach our rank, and therefore should be entirely capable of training young mages without her guidance.The meeting was over in less than twenty minutes. I met with the Adepts, of who numbered a dozen, and told them to submit their initial reports to me by the end of the day and to begin thinking of any suggestions they might have for the impending training. I declined to speak in front of the men for the time being.

 

The next week was a flurry of meetings, reports, and schedules. I spent an inordinate amount of time behind my desk with Arienne , so much so that I had an extra desk and chair moved in so we would no longer have to crowd each other behind mine, or so I thought to myself. The real reason, perhaps, is that she would twirl her hair and chew on the end of the quill whilst she was thinking and I found it hard to tear my eyes away. When I moved her desk to the adjacent wall I found I was much more productive.

 

One particularly dreary and wet afternoon while Arienne was retrieving our lunch from the mess tent, an unfamiliar voice called to me from outside. Thankful for the distraction from the tedium of reading personnel reports I answered.

 

“Yes? What it is? Come.” The head of a trooper I didn’t recognize poked in, rain running in a stream from his helm.

 

“Sorry to disturb you sir,” I waved dismissively, “there’s a man who’s come to camp demanding to see you. Goes by the name of ‘Jock’.” I leaned forward quickly, my interest piqued.

 

“You mean Jacques?” The trooper nodded

 

“Aye sir, that’s it. You know him?” I sprang from my seat and pushed past the confused Legionnaire. Standing there in the rain, with a package wrapped in velvet under his arm, stood my brother Jacques. He looked as dour and broody as ever until he saw me, and for the first time since we were children I watched his face break into a huge grin. I was even more shocked when he laughed and wrapped me up in a tight hug and lifted me off my feet. I laughed as well and squeezed him right back. For a few minutes we hugged and laughed in the rain and became soaked all the way through. The soldier looked even more confused than before and after a while simply shook his head and slogged off through the muck. I dragged Jack into the tent and we caught up.

 

Father had sent him to Wayrest as soon as word got out that the Tenth had set up camp there. When news that war had broken out and that my Legion had been defeated and more or less vanished into the wastes, Mother had taken ill and would rarely leave bed most days. Father would not leave her side and thus had sent Jack to find out whether I had survived. Better to know than to live with the agony of suspense. We shared a few drinks and talked small for awhile. Arienne returned with our lunch and, despite Jack’s adamant protests, immediately left to retrieve a third meal. She insisted that Jack eat the platter she had brought back for herself. When she left, an uncomfortable silence hung in the air, broken only by the rain that drummed on the canvas. I could see that Jack was unwilling or unable to ask about the Legion’s ordeal but dying to know. I volunteered no information. 

 

“What’s that?” I pointed to the purple velvet bag Jack had tucked beneath the chair. He threw his hands up as if he’d forgotten some important errand, set his glass aside and picked it up. He stood and undid the tassel holding the bag closed and held it out to me.

 

“From Father, should I find you,” he said with a half smile. I reached in and felt a smooth wooden handle. I pulled the sword and scabbard free of the bag and my heart leapt up into my throat. It was Father’s basket-hilt broadsword, the one gifted to him by the King of Wayrest when he received his knighthood. Gorgeous filigree decorated the length of the jet black scabbard, and the hilt of the blade was a collection of intricate and marvelously winding  metalwork. I drew the blade and marveled at the craftsmanship, the way I always had as a boy. It had been forged by the King’s personal blacksmith, an ancient Orc who ran the finest forge in High Rock. Jack raised an eyebrow expectantly, “Well? What do you think?”

 

I returned the sword home and stared at it for a while longer.

 

“Jack,” I paused and stared hard at the sword, “I can’t accept this. This is your sword by all rights, and the symbol of our family. You should have it,” I held it back out to him. 

 

“Destan, you fool,”he snorted with barely contained laughter and pushed the blade back to me, “the last time I swung anything at anyone was when I chased the Twins about with a broom for putting a toad in my shoes.” He smiled, put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in, “It’s really a gift from me, little brother. Father said the same thing. But I think you need it more than I ever will, and I want you to keep it.” His face grew more serious, “It wouldn’t do for you to perish in battle for want of a proper weapon.” He squeezed my shoulder and put his forehead to mine, “We just want you to make it home, Destan.” My eyes began to sting, and I could see his had welled up and before I knew it we were locked in an embrace and both of us sobbed. Arienne returned a few moments later, she stopped in the doorway and looked incredibly embarrassed at her interruption, and we broke apart as if nothing had happened and sat down to eat. It remains one of my deepest regrets that I never did return home, though I did survive. The sword has served me well, and I still carry it to this day.

 

Jack departed that night. Before he left we had Arienne in tears as we told stories of our family, specifically the adventures of the ever mischievous Twins. He left with a handshake and a few quiet words and stepped out into the torrent and vanished. Arienne bagan to tidy up, and I watched her stack the plates, silverware, platters, and bowls, her hips swaying and movements ever so graceful.

Perhaps it was the excellent wine Jack had brought that gave me courage. Perhaps it was the myriad of shared looks, the gentle touches, the soft words. Perhaps the way the soft light of the lantern made her emerald eyes twinkle in just the right way to drive me mad. Perhaps it was the half smile she wore on her face as she went about her task, or the way she hummed as she worked.

 

I stood, crossed the spacious tent while she placed all the dishes just so and gently took her by the elbow. She turned, neck craned and expression curious. When my arm slid around her waist and pulled her close, her eyes fluttered with surprise and then closed. We both leaned in at the same moment and suddenly her mouth was open beneath mine, her hands grasped the back of my neck, and our bodies became intertwined. I could taste the wine on her tongue, a faint flavor of blueberries that still lingered. The smell of her perfume filled my head and drove me wild. Being young, and therefore still strong and brave enough to do such, I wrapped an arm beneath her buttocks and lifted her into the air. A high pitched squeal escaped her lips followed by a giggle. I cast her onto the cot gently and began to disrobe. She watched me, hair flung out behind her head with a coy and vulnerable look on her face, looking every bit the picture of some fae creature of old, too beautiful and too perfect to truly exist. Her lips parted and the perfect smile revealed itself in the dying light. I set upon her like a wild animal.

 

We spent the first of many nights together then. For the first, and only, time in my life I felt love and something like true happiness. Yet even then, our very first time, there was a cloud of desperation that hung over our heads. We knew that war was in our midst and knew we would both see battle soon. I lied awake that night and wondered how I would protect this being of pure beauty and innocence from harm and the horrors of the field. I never did come up with an answer.

 

End Part VI


	7. Part VII

The Army stayed in the camps outside of Wayrest for a little over ten months. We spent every possible moment of that time learning, training, strategizing, and practicing. The majority of my men were raw Novices and the vast majority of the regular troops were fresh as well. Generally a mage wasn’t granted entry into the Shadow Legion unless they were an apprentice, but dire measures were taken in an attempt to match the magickal might of the Thalmor Army.

Arienne was an invaluable asset, and one of the most technically skilled Healers I have ever known. Her energy seemed endless and she juggled her duties with grace and ease, always prompt and professional. Her only weakness was the she was a bit squeamish as were most of the other Healers under my charge. I broke them of that with a training method suggested by Lucius, of all people. Live pigs were purchased, due to the similarity in their anatomy and ours, put into a pen, given a heavy dose of sleeping medicine, and then intentionally wounded. After being treated the animal was euthanized and sent off to the kitchens, provided the Healer hadn’t used any toxic ingredients during the procedure.There was no time or resource limit and only one rule; keep your pig alive. I observed the rotations of Healers the first time they conducted this trial, if only for the amusement of watching them retch and gag. Arienne had to deal with a ruptured intestine during her first trial, and was buried in the pig’s belly up to both elbows. After securing the rupture and sewing it back up she ran off to the side a vomited violently for a few minutes. I helped keep her hair out of her face and we polished off the liquor in my flask. I made a joke about having sausage for dinner. Arienne laughed and then spewed on my boots.

Our relationship was the most commonly-known secret in the camp even though we maintained the charade that we were strictly platonic, more to keep the Grandmaster from being put in an awkward position than anything else. We shared my cot every night afterwards and any time the Tenth was granted liberty we would find a quiet spot to escape to, just the two of us. I bared my soul to her, and she shared her fears and insecurities. I found I drank less and less throughout the day, and my nightmares were replaced by scenes of passion in the night, or of rolling hills and a gentle breeze and Arienne’s head in my lap.

My Adepts and I decided on a system that would allow for maximum coverage on the battlefield. Two Healers for each century, or a hundred men, with an Adept in charge of every one hundred Healers. The Adepts would set up casualty collection points directly behind the line during battle and Arienne and I would set up a larger aid and trauma station further back. I received approval from all three Legates for a contingent of a hundred troopers to serve as stretcher bearers. We practiced this system at a small scale while the Legions took to the field and trained and found it highly successful in moving “wounded” off the battlefield. During camp time I had the Adepts, as well as one Bosmer Apprentice named Estilla who was exceptionally talented at making poultices and potions, in charge of conducting a variety of courses. For the first two weeks of these classes I sat and observed, but ceased once Arienne informed me my presence served only as a distraction and threatened to undermine their authority. The Novices and Apprentices had to see that I had the utmost trust in the ability of my Chiefs. I limited myself to one classroom visit a week, and only for an hour at most.

I was extremely frustrated in the first few months until I managed to get my schedule under control. My hands cramped, my eyes burned, and my back ached. I began to despise camp life and especially command. I didn’t join the Legion to be chained behind a desk, I thought. I saw less of Arienne than I would have liked, although there was always some report that needed my signature, or some problem that needed my input. If anyone questioned why it took her the better part of an hour to receive a yes or no answer, or why she always came back with robes crumpled and hair wild, they kept it to themselves. Even these daily visits were not enough to stave off my cabin fever however. Eventually I personally took over the sick call hours for the officer corps, just as I had in Hegathe, just to stave off some of the tedium. Grandmaster Lorialia politely remarked that it was, “highly unusual,” for a Healer of my status to see to boils and sprains, but an official order to cease never came. I continued this duty until we marched back towards Hammerfell. Relief came finally when I realized that my Adepts could put quill to paper as well as I could, and that the Grandmaster merely needed to see my signature on most reports. It cleared a fair amount of monotony from my day and gave me spare time to train myself. I practiced spells, worked on my suture technique, and decided I would not carry as fine a blade as had been gifted to me without being able to use it properly.

Lucius, whenever his duties as the new commander of a light cavalry detachment allowed, and I spent a good deal of time training under a Redguard Blademaster.He taught me the nuance of using the blade and guard not only to parry but to deflect and redirect, and how to counter attacks using extreme angles. He was adamant about being in constant motion and the use of precise footwork. The old master would pace around two sparring students with a whip thin cane and, if a student became stagnant or sloppy, the cane would whistle through the air and catch a knee cap or a shin. I became quite competent as a swordsman and when the General announced an Army wide tourney Lucius and I Immediately signed up for the sword duels.

I placed sixth, which isn’t bad for a Healer in an army full of soldiers, and Lucius took second place. The final bout between him and a Dunmer Legionnaire, a true-born Redoran mainlander, went on for nearly ten minutes and was such a brilliant and dazzling display of swordsmanship that the entire audience was breathless. Lucius had strength and reach, but the Elf had the speed and was nimble as a cat. It was then, of course, a shock when the Dunmer intentionally locked their blades together and threw Lucius across the ring from his hip. While the stocky Nibenese tumbled in the dirt, the Elf stabbed his opponent’s blade into the ground and smiled. There was also an archery competition, a wrestling tourney, a relay between Legions, and even the Battlemages got in on the act and put on a display. The entire affair went on for two days and was attended by many from the city, including the King and his court.

The tourney was capped off by an enormous feast, the logistics of which I shudder to imagine. The victors sat at a place of honor at the General’s table alongside the King and Queen, who graciously provided the majority of the vast amounts of food and drink. Sixty thousand men stood, their cups in hand as General Decanius gave a toast that I was too far back to hear. From the way the troopers roared, downed their cups, and fell upon the tables I guessed it’s meaning. I ate until my belly felt as if it would burst and stood to refill my cup. Arienne gave me a quick peck on the cheek and a girlish smile and handed me hers as well. I felt a hand tap my shoulder just as I reached the front of the line.

“Wait your turn lad, this is only my second cup,” I turned my head slightly and expected to see an impatient Legionnaire. Grandmaster Lorialia’s adjutant stood before me instead, hands clasped behind the small of his back.

“The Grandmaster would like a word, Master Loche,” there was no mirth in his smile and a chill went down my spine, “at your earliest convenience, of course.” I nodded and he spun on his heel and set off like a hound with a scent. I pushed and jostled and squirmed my way through the crowds of revelers. The celebration was in full swing and a large band had begun to play. Soldiers danced with local girls, with the servants who desperately scurried back and forth, and even with each other. It was good to see them relax and let loose. Some of the veterans recognized me as I passed, and by the time I reached the Grandmasters table on the stage, my back was was sore and my hand was crushed.

The elderly Altmer, ever the picture of class and civility, delicately sipped from a mug held in both hands. An empty one sat by her elbow, much to my surprise, I never took her for a drinker. She looked up from her mug and her eyebrows shot up.

“Master Loche, come I have something for you.” I stepped in while she rummaged through a satchel that hung from the back of the chair, “enjoying the festivities?”

“Very much Madam, it is quite nice.” She bobbed her head enthusiastically and I realized that she was drunk. The way she hummed as she dug around gave it away.

“Ah,” she held up a folded piece of paper that was sealed with the Imperial crest, “Here it is.” She held it out and I reached for it, only for her to snatch it away suddenly. Her face grew serious. “This is need to know only, Destan,” a jolt went through me at her informality, “do you understand? Tonight is for the troops, this is our burden to bear, for now.” Gently this time, she handed the parchment to me. I broke the seal with my thumb and quickly skimmed it. I felt my chest grow tight.

“When?” Lorialia’s attention had wandered back to her mug, and she looked up at me lazily.

“Within the next week.” She turned away again and added, “Perhaps sooner.”

I whirled away and leaped off the stage without being dismissed. I pushed, prodded, and jostled back through the throng of soldiers and locals. I kept a smile that didn’t reach my eyes plastered on my face and shook hands as they were offered. When I reached the table once more, Arienne looked at me, and a puzzled smile crept across her face.

“Did you forget the wine?” Her puzzlement turned to confusion when I pulled her up by her arm, gently but forcefully, and led her away from the feast.

“Never mind the wine, come with me.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

I did not answer and she did not ask again. We weaved our way through the tents and semi-permanent structures and finally arrived at my quarters. I pulled her through the flap and secured it. I hesitated for a few moments, squatted down in front of the doorway. After I finally built up the nerve to speak, I turned and saw that she had completely disrobed, and the puzzled smile was replaced by mischievous one. The sole source of light was a small opening above the door that allowed moonlight in, and the silvery light played softly across her porcelain skin. She stepped in slowly and let it dance over her curves before she stopped just short of where I stood. Her face and jet black hair shimmered like some goddess of twilight. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words, so awe struck was I by her beauty. She placed a finger over my lips and shushed me softly, then pulled me by the collar onto the cot.

Afterwards we laid in silence, both coated in a sheen of sweat. Her raven hair was at once plastered to her face and wild about her head. With heavy lidded eyes she smiled slowly.

“Well,” the word crept from her mouth as if she barely had the energy to speak, “you certainly felt spirited tonight.” I tried to smile in response but couldn’t. Her own faded and she propped up on an elbow and looked at me. Her heavy eyes suddenly burned intensely. “You need to tell me what’s wrong Destan,” she demanded. I opened my mouth but faltered once more. Instead I stood and picked my robe off the duck boards that made my floor. I pulled the paper free from a pocket and handed it to her. It only took her a few moments to read it and when she looked up at me I could see the fire had gone from her eyes, replaced by trepidation. A stab of emotion lanced my heart.

“It’s time, darling,” I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed, “within the week,” I hesitated and swallowed the fear in my throat, “we march to war.”

As we drifted off to sleep, the nightmares returned. I waded into the mighty Bjoulsae River, up to my waist, and cast a line into the deep blue water. I looked to the shore and saw her, magnificent in the early dawn, the light scattered through the trees near the bank to illuminate my love. Her hair, strewn out behind her in great dark waves, glimmered in the pale sunlight. Her figure was at once accentuated and disguised beneath a simple white dress, and I smiled at the sight. She waved and I waved back. Something tugged in the line and pulled my attention away, but when I turned I had no bite. I swiveled my head around for one last look when icy fingers clamped down around my heart. There he stood, a glowing blue specter half translucent in the gentle dawn. His eyes a burned as bright and blue as they had in life. Lorrick raised his skeletal hand to me once more, and opened his mouth the speak those dreaded words.

I awoke with a drenched in a cold sweat and felt around for Arienne immediately. My heart returned to its place once my hand found her and felt the warmth” and softness of her skin. I rolled and wrapped her in an embrace. She cooed softly. I did not to return to my slumber.

End Part VII


End file.
